


when he remembers

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:38:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he remembers Sherlock, Greg is young and sprite and everything is good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when he remembers

When he remembers Sherlock, Greg is young and sprite and everything is _good_.

For starters, his hair isn’t grey; rather speckled with early signs of silver age that make him look rugged and interesting, not old and weary. He wears a tie at work because everyone else does, and is on the cusp of developing a bad taste for danger. When Sherlock sneaks into his thoughts _now_ , Greg is at the start of his career, heading places, caught up in the chaos of a heady and addictive London, _careening towards a divorce_.

(He wants to forget)

The nicotine patches help, sometimes, when he finds courage enough to brave the slow walk to a headstone. Rare times. Mostly though, they just serve as a poisonous reminder -

Of treacle curls; the smell of expensive and illegal substances, the cold shock of finding Sherlock, strung out and fog eyed and utterly beautiful. In a _morgue_ of all places. A goddamn morgue, and Greg had only really gone there to badger a statement out of the man, after a particularly nasty case of homicide that the consulting detective had deliciously (and arrogantly) wrapped up in under twenty four hours.  

But that’s definitely not happening anymore. Because Sherlock is up to his eyeballs in - cocaine, Greg guesses by the white blur under his nose - and apparently has no regard for the slowly warming dead body on the table he’s using to shoot up another cocktail.

To his credit, Greg moves quite quickly. Sherlock barely manages a glance in his direction before he’s being pushed away by the chest, before Greg is pinning him with his forearm against his collar bone, breathing; _why_.

Sherlock looks at him, observes Greg like he’s some new and fascinating crime scene, smothered in blood and questions and all the things that a sociopath detective finds captivating. Greg doesn’t pretend to know Sherlock, not an ounce of him, but he does know when someone’s high, when someone’s hovering on the brink of pushing too far. When Sherlock’s lips begin to curl, Greg loosens his grip and steps back a few, runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

“You’re a complete idiot. Do you know how long I could put you away for this?”

It’s a threat, and god help him Greg _means it_ , but Sherlock as ever is nonplussed, bored, believes himself untouchable.

“So put me away, Lestrade. Cuff me up, cart me off, send me-“

“ _Sherlock_ ”

Now his voice sounds more like disappointed, and that always gets the drugged up idiot; because Sherlock's not _in fact_ untouchable, he has weak spots, and though Greg _doesn’t know him_ , he knows how to play. He knows where to prod and has done so enough times that it comes easy, it’s the only way he ever manages to reign him in, (as much as it’s possible to).

But, Sherlock is _high_ , hence the rules are no longer rules, but merely ignorable guidelines.

The man saunters forwards, all hips and neatly pressed trousers, Greg shoves his hands into his pockets and stands his ground, raises his eyebrows as Sherlock blurs into his personal space. Sherlock’s eyes really are black, though, blown like dying stars and the gravity is alluring.

“I mean it.” Sherlock presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, Greg watches the press of it as it moves from one side of his mouth to the other. “Cuff me, Lestrade."

Pale wrists dance before Greg’s eyes, held out, two white flags. He doesn’t trust him, not usually and definitely not whilst fucked up and dangerous looking. But Greg reaches for his cuffs regardless, unhooks them from his belt and holds Sherlock’s gaze as he circles them with finesse around his wrists, tightens them less than gently.

Then, in a swift move that he should have probably anticipated, Sherlock throws his hooped arms around Greg’s neck, pulls _hard_ , until Greg feels the metal digging little link shaped grooves into his skin.

They’re eye to eye, nose to nose - _lips to lips_ as Sherlock presses a chemical stained mouth to his; holds him trapped even though Greg’s hands are pushing at his chest, instinctively resisting. The will to vacate the situation leaves, though, when a clever tongue parts his lips, when Sherlock paints his teeth and his gums with bitter saliva and is unrelenting until Greg gives and _moans._

“Sherlock, I can’t“ He breathes, the flat of his palms moving to touch and map out Sherlock’s chest.

“Don’t be stupid, you’re getting a divorce”

“No, I’m not actually-“

“Yes, _you are_.”

Greg’s pretty sure he's not, but then he could be, this is Sherlock, who knows everything and predicts everything and hell, what does he even _care_? He couldn’t give two shits right now, actually, because Sherlock is scraping his teeth against the stubble at his jaw, letting up his vice grip on the back of Greg’s neck and moving downwards, arms still circled and cuffed around Greg’s torso, nails scraping over his cotton shirt as Sherlock falls to his knees.

When Sherlock slips his mouth around him, the first thing he thinks is _holy hell, Sherlock Holmes is blowing me_ , the second is _holy hell Sherlock Holmes is blowing me in a fucking morgue_ , and the third is;

“This is a much better use for your mouth”

Which would be a great game winning thing to say, except it comes out as a breathy groan and Greg knows he’s lost when he _feels_ Sherlock smirk around him.

It’s all glorious and leg-shaking dirty. When he’s drained and wrecked, Sherlock wipes his mouth against Greg’s thigh and pushes himself up, un-hoops his arms and fingers out the key from his pocket, unlocks the cuffs and sends them sliding across the floor, all before Greg can even catch his breath.

“Well it’s been a pleasure, Inspector, but I must dash. Do feel free to zip up your own flies.”

Sherlock looks at him as though he’s a particularly successful experiment, which is flattering but for the fact that Greg has semen sticking to his leg hairs and probably looks more than thoroughly fucked.

“Hey,” He manages; points at Sherlock with a shaky finger just before he sweeps out of the room. “No more drugs!”

 

//

 

It’s Sherlock though, so there’s always more.

There’s nicotine and cocaine for a couple of days after a string of boring cases, where Greg finds himself knocking at his door more times than he cares to admit, checking in for health and safety rather than a quick blow job.

There’s a whole bunch of _god knows what_ one bitter night in the throes of an early winter, and Greg supports Sherlock from his arm pits, practically carries him home through the dark streets of London, doesn’t trust the jarring movements of a cab to ride them back.

There’s a rather wonderful few hours in June when Sherlock gets high off weed (Is that not a bit, I dunno, _beneath_ you?) and ends up, somehow, letting Greg slide into him bent over a chair, moaning filthy things into the heated air and Greg thinks everything is pretty damn fabulous right now.

Then, well.

 _Then_ there’s John Watson.

Ex-army, doctor, saviour. Pure white fucking _light_ , and Greg (nor any other person, it seems) can compete with that.

 

//

 

Of course he wonders, sometimes, if they’re screwing around.

Greg knows for certain that Sherlock is capable, _more_ than able, despite all the world and Mycroft Holmes thinking he’s some unbroken virgin. But John? Sensible man, loyal, straight as a nail and Greg finds himself liking him more with each case, so that must say something then, mustn’t it? Because Sherlock isn’t interested in caring or feeling or being good, and John practically streams that from his bones with each breath.

The way Sherlock _looks_ at him though.

Those eyes have never been brighter, more curious, more enthralled. Greg’s never been stared at like that, even with his teeth at Sherlock’s chest or his fingers deep in Sherlock’s curls. (It’s been over a month since he’s done either).

 _Jealousy_ , Greg thinks, so he goes on holiday.

 

//

 

Holidays don’t help much, not really. It just means the thing you’re trying to escape from can haunt you in a different country, amid the sand and sun instead of the cobble and cold. Greg ends up _brown as a nut_ and not a shade less jealous than he was before he left.

Baskerville is fun, of sorts. Rewarding in terms of the case; unsatisfying in terms of skin to skin ratio. The maths isn’t on his side, and neither is Sherlock.

It’s John, it’s _always_ John. Greg wonders if they actually spend any time apart, if they eat sleep and breathe each other. If they sleep _together_. They share laughs and secret smiles that Greg knows nothing about; Sherlock touches John as if it’s normal and allowed, as if it’s not questionable for two men to be so close, and the doctor accepts it, doesn’t seem to care, (even encourages it, a little).

Greg _wishes_ it was him.

But there’s so much confusion and doubt that it’s not possible. Greg believes him, of course he does, but he’s also a man of the law, also human. John is right there, anyway, bold and bright and outspoken in his loyalty. One thing is very clear, beneath the layers of lies and guilt -

He’s lost Sherlock.

And Greg comes to terms with that in the most real, physical sense. It materialises in the form of an open radio transmission, stark and blunt-

_Suspect has jumped, all officers in Smithfield area report to St Bart’s, repeat; Sherlock Holmes has jumped._

 

//

 

At the funeral it’s himself, John, Mrs Hudson and more than a handful of people Sherlock had saved in some way or another. Mycroft is there, too, a shadow in the background.

The whole thing is a bit stale, muted.

 _(Boring_ )

Even though Greg is hurt and guilty and knows John absolutely hates him right now, they share a pint or two in the pub afterwards. In silence. There’s a part of him that expects Sherlock to burst through the door, loud and vibrant. There’s another, _more honest_ part of him, that wants Sherlock to sneak back to life in the dead of night, crawl into his bed, press their mouths together like it’s all that matters.

Despite himself, watching John stare emptily at the dregs of his beer, Greg thinks; _I hope he comes back to you._

 

//

 

When he remembers Sherlock, Greg is young and sprite and everything is good.

When the Dead Man comes back to life, Greg is old and tired and the only consolation is the ease of the guilt staining his heart.

Nothing is said but he knows, he _knows_ John and Sherlock will always be _John and Sherlock_ , now more than ever. They can’t go back, only move forward, and they do so together, untouchable, unattainable. Greg watches from a distance until the reunion is over, until he and everyone else in the world gets to rejoice at the return of the infamous Sherlock Holmes.

Everything is bleak, but it is _right,_ so Greg smiles and greets Sherlock like an old friend.  


  


  



End file.
